


I Hated Her, So I Couldn't Get Her Out of My Mind for a Minute

by mountainsbeyondmountains



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Noir, Detective Noir, F/M, Miscommunication, more secrecy & intrigue than a game of CLUE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-22 10:31:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13762245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountainsbeyondmountains/pseuds/mountainsbeyondmountains
Summary: Once, on a job gone wrong, Jon had been shot in the chest. He shouldn't have survived. He didn't like mention it. Now, seeing Sansa Stark at Dragonstone of all places, dressed in a man's suit tailored to fit her frame, laughing, sun-kissed, hair in one of those intricate braids she could do without looking in a mirror, a crowd of men gathered around her, looking as reverent as they would at an altar- being shot hurt less, to tell the truth.





	1. Chapter 1

"Weapons."

 _Goddamnit._ Sansa laid a meaningful hand on the guard's shoulder, and, voice molten with insinuation, suggested, "Now, surely that isn't necessary, is it?" She didn't quite bat her lashes at him, but she came close. She hated resorting to such cheap tactics, but hated the thought of being defenseless more. She may as well have tried to seduce a gargoyle; the guard remained stoic, and repeated, "Weapons."

Sansa reached under her dress to unstrap the small handgun from its special holster attached to her garter, then deposited it in the guard's waiting hands. 

"That's all?" he said. "It won't go any easier for you if she finds out you hid something." The guard had a thick accent which took Sansa a moment to place. 

"Are you from Astapor?"

He nodded, despite himself. It was an underutilized tactic, in Sansa's opinion: reminding the henchmen that they were people, not just faceless cogs in the machine. "Bet you were glad to leave, huh? What's your name?"

"Grey Worm."

"Pleased to meet you, Grey Worm. In spite of the circumstances." _The circumstances_ being that he'd dragged her from the card tables through unmarked doors, tearing the hem of her dress (which was  _very_ expensive) in the process, then demanding she hand over her weapons. But Grey Worm didn't press the weapons issue any further, and his hold on Sansa's arm to bring her beyond the waiting door was far gentler than the way he'd seized her during her initially apprehension.  _Good._ Sansa would need all the allies she could muster. 

She was taken to an office, all dark-stained hardwood and dim lighting. The woman behind the desk was shrouded in smoke. A cigarette's smouldering embers were the brightest thing in the room. "So I hear you tried to cheat my casino," the woman said, confirming Sansa's prediction that she'd been taken directly to Daenerys Targaryen, owner of Dragonstone Casino.  _Perfect._

"Your sources are correct," Sansa replied.

"While I really ought to leave you bleeding in an alleyway as a warning to other criminals-"  _As if Daenerys had never done anything illegal in her life,_ Sansa scoffed internally- "I'm curious about anyone who has the audacity to cross me. What is your name?"

"Alayne. Alayne Stone."

"Haven't you got a husband to watch over you?"

 _I don't see a wedding ring on your finger either._ "No. No family. I'm an orphan, but who isn't, these days?"

Daenerys eased, just a little. "I come from a similar situation. Well, not so similar. Everyone in Westeros knew the Targaryen name, once.  _Feared_ us. Now I'm the last of my kind. It can be difficult, relying solely on one's self." With a mournful exhale, Daenerys finished her cigarette, and immediately held out another for Grey Worm to light. 

Sansa murmured, "Quite a legacy." The Stark name was once _respected_ in Westeros, but she hadn't been a Stark in nearly a decade. This was no time to become misty-eyed. "You know, this is your establishment. Do whatever you'd like with me. It was wrong to try and cheat, I know that. But sometimes one thief can help catch another."

"Are you suggesting I offer you a job?"

"It would be a prudent move." Sansa had heard Daenerys enjoyed feeling magnanimous, and it was on this rumor that Sansa gambled. 

"I would expect utmost loyalty. You would play for Dragonstone, not against it. Your cut of the pay would be entirely dependent on your earnings. And if you betray me..." Daenerys allowed Sansa to imagine atrocities, then smiled. "You know, I find myself liking you, Alayne. You're an honest thief."

Sansa returned the smile. It wasn't genuine- she may have been an honest thief, but her honest smiles were rare, and didn't bare so many teeth as the one gracing her face now- but she knew it had an endearing quality. This was a smile she'd perfected over the years. It begged,  _Go on, underestimate me._ Besides, Sansa was amused by Daenerys' notion that she'd been caught. Back in the King's Landing, during his more whimsical drunken stupors (as opposed to the vengeful, or lusty, or philosophical drunken stupors), Tyrion Lannister himself had instructed his nephew's poor little fiance how to cheat at cards and dice. That night at Dragonstone, Sansa had been carefully careless. "Thank you. I think you'll soon find you made the right decision. I promise, I'm the best at what I do."

***

Sansa  _was_ the best at what she did. 

Nothing much had ever been expected of her growing up except to maintain a sleek waistline after childbirth, and she'd been well on track to accomplishing exactly that when her fiance, Joffrey Baratheon, had ordered one of his henchmen to smash a decanter of whiskey onto Sansa's head after she'd spoken out of turn. That night, picking the glass out of her hair, Sansa had sworn she'd live to visit Joffrey in prison. 

As it turned out, Joffrey would be killed in a drive-by shooting not a year later, but by that time, Sansa had secretly gathered sufficient evidence about her former-soon-to-be-in-laws' political chokehold on King's Landing. She went to the  _Westeros Chronicle_ and her name was on the byline of the expose which stripped back the Lannisters' gilded facade and exposed the corruption underneath. 

Theeditor of the  _Chronicle,_ Olenna Tyrell, offered Sansa a job. Most recently, she'd gone undercover to investigate Petyr Baelish's secret sex trafficking affiliations, and found out they were more than mere affiliations. Before that, she'd returned home to the city of Winterfell, and revealed the bribes and bodies in the river which the mayor, Roose Bolton, had committed to hide the repercussions of his son Ramsay's depravities. Olenna had said, "I like your writing. It's quite vicious. I appreciate the madness to your method, Sansa."

Sansa valued her editor's praise infinitely more than that of Daenerys, who had said almost begrudgingly, "You're pretty. It'll be easy for you to lure fools in. Flies to honey." Or more accurately, moths to a flame, Sansa had thought. Shortly before her arrival at Dragonstone, she'd allowed the dark dye to seep from her hair. She'd grown a little too recognizable in Westeros under her guise of Alayne Stone. Now, scarcely a month in the tropics had freckled her skin and threaded her hair with bronze. Sansa had grown so used to mahogany locks and a nocturnal complexion that she hardly recognized herself when she glanced in the mirror. 

After brushing out that hair, before going to bed, Sansa fulfilled a promise she'd made. She called her mother. Catelyn had made her disapproval of her daughter's choice of occupation no secret. "I wish you'd come home," she said. 

"This job will last three months at most," Sansa consoled her. "Things are a little too hot for me over there right now. You know that."

"If your father were still with us-"

If Ned Stark, or even Sansa's elder brother Robb, were still alive perhaps she would be sleeping soundly in her bed in Winterfell. Or maybe she'd be hiding a razor blade under her tongue, then locking herself in the bathroom of Joffrey's bathroom and creating a bloody mess for the maid to scrub. 

Her father had been chief of police in Winterfell, and if he had to choose one lesson to impart upon his progeny, it would most likely be:  _do what is right and honorable, at all costs._ Well, Sansa didn't always do what was honorable, but she was committed to justice, same as Ned Stark had been in life. Who cared if she couldn't sleep through the night? She wasn't going to follow her father's footsteps. They only led to an early grave.

***

"I want to know what you make of her, Jon," Daenerys said. Her arm was entwined in the crook of his as she led him through the mire that was Dragonstone on a Saturday evening. She liked to keep Jon close, always on the edge of her vision, as if given the chance, he would run and never look back. 

In the four months he'd been at Dragonstone, Jon had rarely seen Daenerys in the company of women. She didn't like any threats to her status as the most beautiful woman in the room. Even now, men's eyes followed her movements as she strode through the casino with the bravado of a general surveying a legion. Jon knew scores of men would relinquish fortunes to be in his place, with Daenerys on their arm. If Jon could, he'd gladly trade places for free. 

Knowing of Daenerys' vanity, Jon pictured this new hire she spoke of to be some rusted old moll with a cigar clamped between her teeth. But Jon saw quite the opposite when Daenerys gestured towards a blackjack table and said, "There she is."

Once, on a job gone wrong, Jon had been shot in the chest. He shouldn't have survived. He didn't like mention it. Now, seeing Sansa Stark at Dragonstone of all places, dressed in a man's suit tailored to fit her frame, laughing, sun-kissed, hair in one of those intricate braids she could do without looking in a mirror, a crowd of men gathered around her, looking as reverent as they would at an altar- being shot hurt less, to tell the truth. 

His body went numb, and the very action of his heart pumping blood  _hurt,_ but he let Daenerys pull him to the blackjack table without resistance. He was close enough to hear Sansa speak for the first time in two years- her voice was the same strong wine. "Harry, I've very charmed, but for what has to be the fortieth time, no, I will not marry you."

"Maybe tomorrow," a man teased in reply. Under the table, his uncalloused hand rested on Sansa's knee. Jon wondered if she still kept her gun strapped to her thigh. 

"Alayne!" Daenerys greeted. "Alayne, I'd like you to meet my very good friend, Jon Snow. He's involved with security here at Dragonstone."

Almost imperceptibly, Sansa shifted when her eyes met Jon's. With a flicker of recognition, almost like a static shock, the tilt of her chin became more confrontational, and her smile faltered for barely a second. "Security? Hear that, boys? Better behave," she japed. "Or maybe not. He's quite short, isn't he? Not so scary." Her admirers all laughed obediently. 

Sansa sauntered over, and extended a hand to Jon. She probably intended for him to shake, but instead, he seized her hand and raised it to his mouth, kissed her fingers for the first time in two years. The kiss was so brief that Sansa, in all likelihood, hadn't even truly felt it. Like skimming a finger through a flame so fast that it didn't even burn. 

"How dashing," Sansa murmured. Daenerys' grip on Jon tightened. She said:

"Why don't I order us some drinks and we all get to know each other?"

***

"Let's play a game," Daenerys purred in that way of hers, phrasing threats as suggestions. They'd withdrawn to a more secluded corner of Dragonstone. "Two truths and a lie. I presume you already know the rules? I find it's the best way for strangers to get acquainted."

"Sounds intriguing," Sansa said. She hadn't touched her drink. Jon remembered her aversion to anything which forced her mind to operate slower. "Why don't you go first, Daenerys?"

"Oh, all right." She needed no time to deliberate. "I've lived in twelve different cities. I've been proposed to seventeen times. And I've escaped from four buildings- some people say I'm fireproof! Can you imagine?"

"That's extraordinary," Sansa breathed. "Do you have a habit of smoking in bed, by chance?"

Jon had to swallow back his laughter with his whiskey. Both scalded on the way down. Sansa's question had been gouging, but her tone innocuous as warm milk before bed. Before Daenerys could puzzle out the insult, he said, "The one about the cities. The seventeen cities. That's the lie."

"Why do you say that?"

"You have a tell. You blushed, just a little, as you said it."

Daenerys was pleased. She'd probably interpreted Jon's close observation as romance, instead of what it truly was: part of the sting. "You're right. Alayne, your turn next."

Sansa was silent for a moment. Then she said, without inflection, "I was born in the Riverlands- a part of Westeros, just for clarification, I know you've never been, Daenerys. What else? I sleep on my back. And all my former lovers are dead."

"A black widow," Daenerys said. "Well, Jon? Which one is the lie? What's Alayne's tell?"

This is what Jon knew for certain: Sansa had no tell. She lied as easily as she breathed. There were no other guarantees with her. He remembered, during one of their first conversations, back when they were still trying to impress each other, when he'd said he was raised in the north, she'd confided, _"I lived my whole life in Winterfell, til I turned eighteen."_

 _"You don't have an accent,"_ he'd noted.

_"I lost it along the way. I couldn't wait to leave the north."_

And she'd never slept on her back, not once. She slept on her side, as close to Jon as she could be, because, _"I get cold easily."_ Then, more quietly, almost whispered into the pillow, as if hoping he wouldn't hear, _"And you make me feel safe."_

As for all of her former lovers having breathed their last? Maybe once Sansa had believed that true, but Jon was sitting right across from her, looking right at her, breathing the same smoke and salt air as her. Even Sansa couldn't deny the truth of that- much like she couldn't deny that they'd fucked, and she'd loved it, even if she hadn't loved him. "You've fooled me," Jon acquiesced. 

Before Daenerys could ask Sansa which was the lie, one of her associates materialized at her shoulder and whispered in her diamond-studded ear. Daenerys rose, said, "I hate to go, but have urgent business to attend to," and was suddenly gone. 

"So," Sansa said once she and Jon were alone. Without the barrier of Daenerys' needs, Jon found he couldn't quite look at Sansa.

All the sleepless nights and the red-eyed mornings, the money wasted on liquor and the time wasted wondering manifested into fury as Jon demanded, "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, don't tell me that naivete is sexually transmitted, Jon. What do you think? I'm here on assignment," Sansa seethed.

"Where have you been? Why did you leave?"

" _I_ wasn't the one who left." The emotion which suffused her voice and expression and posture was brief and illuminating as a lightning strike on a moonless night. Then she became enigmatic again. "I spent some time in the Vale. After, you know."

What Jon called two years of searching, she reduced to  _some time in the Vale._ "Please tell me you're safe," Jon finally said, even though she'd always rejected his trying to be the hero. 

"I'll tell you whatever you like."

_"Sansa."_

"I'm sure the worst I can get up to is still less dangerous than Daenerys' bed."

"It's not what you think-"

As if summoned, the man from earlier,  _Harry,_ approached their table and asked Sansa to dance. "Gladly," she said, joining him without sparing Jon so much as a second glance. Watching them- they made a picturesque pair, he had to admit- Jon ruminated ways to kill the man using only the objects within arm's reach. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I no longer know if I wish to drown myself in love, vodka, or the sea” - Franz Kafka

Suddenly, the chaos of Dragonstone’s vices was too garish for Jon; his head throbbed with thunder and his eyes burned. He couldn’t stand watching Sansa shimmer in someone else’s arms. He needed the night, needed shadows and silence, and most urgently of all, he needed answers. Daenerys didn’t seem to be soon returning from whatever business had captured her attention, so Jon retreated back to the penthouse he’d been reluctantly calling home for the past months.

Many of the phone lines of guests Daenerys considered to be in some way important were tapped at Dragonstone. Jn had no bloodlines, gold, or privilege, but Daenerys still wanted to know his secrets, so he avoided the line in his own room- and used Daenerys’ instead. She’d given him a key within a month of his arrival. Someone in her position really ought to have been more wary of strangers. 

Jon stripped off his tuxedo jacket. Dragonstone was the furthest south he’d ever ventured for an assignment, and it was sweltering as any of the seven hells. He left the lights off. The moon was ripe, and its rays were enough to read the dial. It was past midnight, but the call was answered by the second ring. “Mormont.”

“It’s Jon. Did you know she was coming here?”

“Did I know  _ who  _ was coming?” The old man may have sounded tremulous, but Jon wasn’t fooled. His mentor and leader of the Night’s Watch detective agency was about as frail as cold-rolled steel. 

“Stark.”

Mormont barked a laugh. “You tell me. You’re the one who spent near a year looking for her, aren’t you? Did she run across the beach into your arms when you locked eyes?”

A year and a half ago- Jon had fallen asleep again at the office, newsprint on his cheek, trying to recreate a masterpiece out of ashes, and Mormont found him. He brought him coffee, black, told him to go home and shower, for the love of the old gods.  _ “You can’t find a ghost, Jon. You can’t hold smoke in your hands.” _

“Did you plan this?” Jon demanded. “Have you known where she was this whole time, and just enjoyed watching me make a fool of myself? _Did you know she was coming_ _here?_ ” 

“You overestimate me, Snow.” A miracle- Mormont was almost fazed by Jon’s outburst. “Olenna Tyrell only sent word less than a fortnight ago. You two made a good team, back on the Winterfell job. Even if I don’t approve of… clandestine liaisons. But no, I still don’t know where your little bird was hiding all this time.”

Jon resented how tawdy Mormont made what had happened with Sansa sound. It had been no fly-by-night, ignited-by-alcohol, lipstick-stained, torn-stocking affair. “You know, I was going to leave the Night’s Watch for her.”

_ “We’ll honeymoon in the south and drink champagne every night,”  _ Sansa had japed.

_ “Whatever you want,”  _ Jon had promised.

“Well,” Mormont said. “Have you at least thanked her yet?”

“What for?”

“For saving your life.” 

“ _ You absolute idiot,”  _ Sansa had said, one hand extended to help Jon up, clutching the gun in the other.  _ “We need to go. Immediately.”  _

He hadn’t thanked her.  He’d been rendered rather inarticulate by the circumstances.

The staccato of Daenerys’ heels approaching in the hallway saves Jon from having to reply to this truth. He disconnected the call and flicked on the lights just as Daenerys entered. 

It didn’t take long for her to discard her dress. As she straddled him, Jon was once again struck with the thought that countless men would kill or die for the chance to be with this woman, to be the object of her greed. And yet he couldn’t stop comparing her to Sansa. Daenerys was small; if he wanted, he could have carried her. Sansa was statuesque, and she was unafraid of shoes which made her even taller. Daenerys kissed languidly, as if the world waited for her pleasure. Sansa kissed feverishly, as if the world was about to end. They called Daenerys a silver queen. Sansa was gold- she had no equals. 

Daenerys unbuttoned Jon’s shirt, palmed him, then drew back, frowning. She was not used to her expectations not being met. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you-”

“I don’t know.” Jon tempered the lie with honesty: “This has never happened before.” Even knowing that when the time inevitably came to betray Daenerys, he’d shoot straight had never caused him to forsake the chance of forgetting which a warm and willing body gave. 

Daenerys stood, lit a cigarette. “You’ve been behaving strangely all evening. Usually you’re so cool. But she’s gotten under your skin.”

“Who?”

“Alayne. Do you know her from somewhere?”

That name on her lips felt like a blasphemy. “I’ve never met her in my life.” Jon re-buttoned his shirt and strode for the door before he further roused Daenerys’ suspicions. He had to run away, to change his name, become a stranger, get so drunk that even he forgot who he was. 

“I didn’t say you could leave!”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Jon told her. He didn’t look back.

***

“Alayne, I have a terrible favor to ask of you,” Daenerys said.

Immediately, Sansa tried to predict what she might request: an alibi? Arson? Murder? Of course, there was the possibility that her true identity had been discovered, but Sansa didn’t think Daenerys would be speaking to her so peaceably if that were the case. Her body would most likely already be unceremoniously tossed from a cliff by now. “Just so long as it doesn’t chip my manicure,” she kidded.

“Well, I have a very important meeting with a potential investor, that man over there-” Daenerys tossed her chin toward the casino entrance, and Sansa took note of the target- “and I need you to keep an eye on Jon for me. He’s much too handsome to be left alone all evening. So won’t you dance with him?”

_ She doesn’t trust him. At least, not completely.  _ “Do I have to?” Sansa asked with feigned reluctance.

“I know you two don’t get along, but that’s really why I chose you. You’re the  _ last _ woman to lead him astray,” Daenerys explained. “So you’ll do it.” Instead of the expected lilt of a question, her last words had all the unyielding finality of a coffin being shut.

“All right, but only for you, Daenerys. I hope he doesn’t brood all night,” Sansa said. Satisfied, Daenerys sashayed over to her “potential investor”. There was more to  _ that  _ arrangement, Sansa knew,  but she would have to investigate it at some later point. In the meantime, she approached the orchestra in the next room over and, with the covert handing over of a healthy sum, asked that they play a few particular songs. Then she made her way over to where she knew Jon would be- the edge of the room, always, so he could see all around him without fear of an attack from behind. 

He didn’t look happy to see her. Then again, he never really looked happy, did he?

_ That’s a lie,  _ a voice which Sansa usually kept bound and gagged in the deepest recesses of her mind whispered. Call it a conscience.  _ You used to make him smile quite easily, without even really trying.  _

“Listen, her highness has decreed that it’s my responsibility to stop you from making a cuckold of her tonight,” she said. “Of course, I could have saved her the worry and told her that you only sleep with people when it expedites the investigative process, but I didn’t, so you owe me a dance.”

Jon sighed. “Brilliant.” As if on cue, the orchestra struck up the song Sansa had requested.  _ Darlin’, darlin’, darlin’, I fall to pieces when I’m with you…  _ Jon’s expression contorted when he recognized the melody, but he still obligingly took Sansa in his arms. He wasn’t much of a dancer, never had been, so they abstained from any convoluted steps and instead slowly turned in a tight circuit, like a porcelain couple spinning atop a music box. The circumstances made Jon tense as a steel trap waiting to be sprung. From the look on his face, and the tautness of his grip, one would have thought he was holding up the sky on his shoulders, instead of dancing with a woman he’d once considered beautiful.

“Well, we’re here for the same reason,” Sansa murmured. “As soon as we both gather the intelligence we need, the sooner we can go our separate ways. She’s just gone to meet with a  _ potential investor.  _ Any idea what that might be for?”

“Probably the Valyrian steel mines. She wants access to one. Desperately.” Jon spoke without really moving his jaw. “She’s hinted at her eventual… plan… to me. She wants to reclaim her family’s former position in Westeros. Become one of most important mobs again.  _ The  _ most important mob.”

“Isn’t pillow talk so sweet?” Sansa nearly snarled. “Well, she’s going to need a good weapons source, considering how many people want her dead.”

“What do you mean?”

“She hasn’t told you about her little misadventures back east? She had good intentions at first, I suppose, but you know what they say about the road to hell. Once the dust settled, her enemies set quite an enticing price on her head. All I’m saying is, sleep with your gun on the nightstand.”

“Thank you for your concern.”

“The tip about the mines is good,” Sansa admitted. “I didn’t know that. You  _ are  _ good at this, you know, despite your dubious methods of extracting information.”

“Will you give it a rest?” Jon demanded. “It’s not like I enjoy it.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s torture. She’s quite infatuated, you must be quite a convincing pretender.”

“Not half as good as you.”

Sansa lifted her face from its former place leaning against Jon’s- not that it meant anything, it was just easier to whisper in his ear that way, it was imperative that no one overheard them- to glare at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He scowled right back at her. “As soon as the job was done in Winterfell, you skipped off to some eighth hell without so much as fixing your lipstick first. Couldn’t have meant much, could it? You didn’t even leave a note, or a goddamned telephone number. I  _ worried  _ about you, did you know that? Searched for you for nearly a year.”

“ _ You left first,  _ Jon. Did you forget that? I woke up one morning and you were gone! And I  _ did  _ wait, don’t you dare say I didn’t wait, I hung around Winterfell waiting for you close to a fortnight even though Ramsay’s thugs were sniffing around. Was I supposed to wait forever?”

Jon lifted one of Sansa’s hands without warning and slipped it beneath his shirt, pressed her fingers against his chest, close to his heart. It took her a moment to realize the significance of the ridges which interrupted his warm skin. A gunshot wound. When she had known him, his chest had been relatively unmarred, and certainly he had no scars like this.

“What happened to you?” Sansa whispered.

“The night I left… I had let the Night’s Watch know that I intended to leave. A mistake. It’s supposed to be a lifelong commitment. You don’t just  _ leave.  _ Some members wanted to meet with me. We were like brothers, I didn’t expect… They shot me.  _ For the Watch,  _ they said. While you were waiting, I was in the hospital. They say it was a miracle I survived. Well, of course I lived, I had to find you. But when I recovered enough to look, you were gone without a trace. Of course, how were you supposed to know what happened?"

Jon didn’t take his eyes off hers as he confessed this; he barely blinked. Sansa could hardly bear the intensity. Tears smudged her gaze. “I’m sorry,” she said. 

They were still dancing, clutching each other like they might drown if they let go. “What could you have done, really?” Jon acquiesced. 

But Sansa still didn’t feel her apology was enough. She couldn’t contemplate any words or gestures that would be enough. Instead, she leaned against Jon again and began to sing softly along to the music, just for Jon to hear.  _ “Darlin’, darlin’, darlin’, I fall to pieces when I’m with you,  I fall to pieces.” _

***

_ “Your next assignment’s in Winterfell,” Mormont said. “Olenna Tyrell- editor-in-chief of  _ The Chronicle,  _ already has a girl undercover there. We thought it would be a good idea for you two to help each other.” _

_ “I work better on my own,” Jon protested.  _

_ “Tyrell has faith in the girl, and I trust Tyrell’s judgement. She’s ruined the lives of men far greater than you, Snow, so quit your sulking. _

_ Jon made to leave, but Mormont issued one last warning. “I hear the girl is pretty, Snow. Don’t get too attached.” The old man’s jaded eyes gleamed like he could see the future, like he knew what was doomed to happen but was trying his hardest to prevent it anyway. _

_ * _

_ Olenna told Sansa to watch out for a man dressed in all black. ““He’ll have straight posture,” she’d said. “Honor is good for the spine.” _

_ Now, across the bar, Sansa thought she saw him- a grey-eyed shadow in a leather jacket. She hadn’t expected him to be handsome. _

_ She approached him with the question she’d been told to ask. “Could you tell me how far the Wall is from here? As the crow flies?” _

_ “Too far for someone like you to travel alone, miss.” _

_ "You must be Jon. Call me Alayne. Would you like to dance?” _

_ “I would.” She smiled at him, and he tried to smile back, but he was rusty at it. The band played an old song, and Sansa knew all the words by heart. Jon was a terrible dancer, but Sansa didn’t mind, because he held her gently. _

_ “Darlin’, darlin’, darlin’, I fall to pieces when I’m with you…” _

_ * _

_ “My real name is Sansa,” she told him.  _

_ “Sansa. That’s a pretty name.” _

_ “No one’s called me that in a long time. It’s nice.” _

_ * _

_ “Are you fucking the bitch, bastard?” Ramsay sneered. “I would, if I were you. She needs it.” _

_ He must have known it was over, that Jon had exhausted every possibility for escape. Now he was just twisting the knife, because he could. Still, Jon said, “I’ll kill you.” _

_ Ramsay smiled his version of a smile, which was like something which had fallen, shattered, and been repaired not quite right. He didn’t reply, though- his smile imploded into a mist of blood. “There’ll be no need for that,” Sansa said. She was a good shot. _

_ * _

_ “Wherever you go, I go,” Jon swore.  _

_ “Don’t worry,” Sansa said. “I don’t want to go anywhere you’re not.” _

_ * _

_ They told him the time and place to meet. Jon wasn’t quite sure why he loaded his gun- these were his brothers, after all. But he knew Sansa would think he was stupid if he didn’t. _

_ He leaned over and kissed her cheek softly, careful not to disturb her rest. She stirred when he closed the door behind him and the lock clicked. _

_ * _

_ The space beside her in bed was cold when Sansa woke. _

***

Neither of them saw Daenerys coming. When she cleared her throat, it was like a volt of electricity passed between Jon and Sansa, scorching them both until they separated. Sansa tried to cool the blush she could feel burning her cheeks. “You two certainly got cozy,” Daenerys said, tone and expression inscrutable. “Come, why don’t we get drinks at the usual table?”

Jon and Sansa didn’t dare look at each other as they sat beside Daenerys. This arrangement was unbearable for a different reason than it had been before. As the other woman rambled on about how she wanted to take Jon out on her boat the next day, just the two of them, so romantic, Sansa stubbornly gazed in the opposite direction. She was the one who saw the man in the gold mask first. 

Where had she seen such a gold mask before? It registered when she noticed the pistol- small, elegant, easily hidden- in his hand. An assassin. Sansa certainly wasn’t vain enough to think that she could be the target, though the gun was pointed in her general direction. No, this kingdom revolved around the woman sitting scant inches away from Sansa. 

The first shot ruined the booth’s admittedly magnificent upholstery. Daenerys screamed for Jon, but he had leaned right, instead of left. In the moment, he had forgotten the Night’s Watch, his mission, his cover, Daenerys- instinctively, he moved to guard Sansa’s body with his own. He pinned her to the bench while the gunfire continued, insistent as a knock at the door. Daenerys hadn’t stopped screaming, but Sansa was smiling. For the first time in maybe even two years, it was a genuine smile, untainted by deception. In the middle of the anarchy, no eyes on them, she placed a whisper of a kiss- it was a promise or an oath more than anything- on Jon’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES, I used Lana Del Rey lyrics for the song because why not??????

**Author's Note:**

> title is a quote from the 1946 movie "Gilda", which inspired this.  
> Does this entire thing make any sense? Who knows? Not me.


End file.
